Clash of the Fashionistas
by The Marvelous Mad Madam Mim
Summary: What if Miranda Priestly and Wilhelmina Slater lived in the same universe? Devil Wears Prada vs. Ugly Betty.
1. Preparing for Battle

**Preparing for Battle**

"Willie!" Marc St James burst into his boss' office, waving a party invitation like a dainty flag. "Guess what tonight is?"

"Thrill me, Marc," Wilhelmina replied dryly, not bothering to look up from her work.

"The Fashion Institute Gala!" Marc cried out happily. He frowned as he examined the invite again, "I think it's for AIDS or starving children or girls in need of an eyebrow wax."

"Will you-know-who be there?" Wilhelmina looked up, arching her eyebrow.

"I-I-I don't think so," Marc suddenly became very nervous. He began to fiddle with his tie.

"Marc," Wilhelmina kept her voice low—a sure sign that her anger was building. "Either she is or she isn't. And if she is making an appearance tonight, we need to find out what time—so we can show up, shake a few hands, and get out before the Wicked Bitch of West Manhattan shows up."

"Absolutely," Marc wheezed, producing his inhaler and quickly disappearing to call up the offices of Runway.

~*~

"Miranda Priestley's office," Emily answered the phone in her usual snide tone. A beat passed. She rolled her eyes heavenward. "Yes, yes, of course Miranda will be attending tonight's gala."

Another pause. This time, her perfectly-lined lips flew open in shock, reminding Andrea Sachs of a fish.

"Of course," Emily's tone did an about-face. She suddenly sounded…scared? She nodded vehemently, "Yes. Yes, I understand."

Emily hung up the phone and gave a stifled a scream of frustration.

"What's wrong, Em?" Andrea asked, genuinely concerned with her coworker's bizarre behavior.

"Why me?" Emily looked heavenward. "I mean, was I Jack the Ripper in a former life? This always happens—every year!"

"What? What happens?"

Emily gave an exasperated sigh, as if explaining this to Andrea drained her already limited supply of patience, "Every year, the Fashion Institute hosts a gala. For AIDS or starving children or something of that depressing nature—anyways, as Head of the Fashion World, Miranda is expected to be there. But of course, every year, the imbeciles who send out the invitations always send one to that flop of a magazine, Mode."

"And that's bad because…" Andy was still lost.

"Oh, God, do I have to spell it out with pictures?" Emily rolled her eyes. Really, this child was hopeless!

"Two words, six," Nigel seemed to appear from nowhere. "Wilhelmina Slater."

~*~

"Why are you panting like a fat girl at homecoming?" Amanda sat prissily atop Marc's desk, a smug grin on her pretty features.

Marc looked up at his partner in crime. He held up the invitation, his voice filled with absolute terror, "She's coming."

Amanda gave a gasp of horror. She immediately produced a bag of potato chips from seemingly nowhere and began eating as if her life depended on it.

Betty Suarez, who happened to witness the entire exchange, approached the two with a quizzical glance, "Everything OK?"

"No," Amanda moaned through a mouthful of chips.

"She's coming," Marc hissed, pushing the invitation in Betty's face as he fell to the floor with a dramatic wail.

"Who?" Betty looked at her companions in confusion.

Both looked around furtively before answering in a stage whisper, "Miranda Priestly."

~*~

"Miranda hates Wilhelmina," Nigel whispered, casting a wary eye at her office door. "For years, they have avoided each other like the plague—but they always get invited to the same events. It's really quite stressful."

"But…why does she hate Wilhelmina?" Andy looked up, her brown eyes wide with innocence.

Nigel chuckled softly, patting her head like a puppy, "I forgot you lived under a rock, sweetheart. Five years ago, at the Milan shows, Miranda and Wilhelmina showed up in the exact same outfit."

Emily nodded solemnly in agreement, as if this was the most horrible offense that one could imagine. Nigel continued, "I mean, for years they shared the same designers, the same models, the same writers and photographers, even the same men—"

"The Fashion World is quite small," Emily agreed.

"But this was the final straw," Nigel concluded. "I mean, the exact same outfit!"

"Right down to the Jimmy Choos," Emily added, shaking her head sadly.

~*~

"Right down to the Jimmy Choos," Marc finished his story, his voice now a horrified whisper. Amanda looked heavenward, as if such a horror was too much to bear.

"So what?" Betty seemed unaffected by this earth shattering incident.

"So what?!" Marc hissed. He looked around quickly, as if to make sure no one heard his coworker's heinous comment, "Haven't you heard a word I just said?!"

"They wore the same shoes, Marc; it's not that big of deal," Betty retorted.

"Look, Betty," Amanda set down her bag of chips—her fourth one in a matter of minutes. "Imagine coming to work and discovering that I am wearing your shoes."

Amanda quickly looked down at Betty's footwear and stifled a gag.

"Or that I'm wearing your poncho," Marc added gleefully.

"Marc, you already did that," Betty rolled her eyes. "For Halloween."

"Truly scary," Amanda quirked her eyebrows. She turned to Marc, "Those eyebrows should've won Scariest Costume."

"Well if Fat Carol hadn't dressed as an ogre, I would have won, hands down," Marc grumbled, crossing his arms and pouting.

"Marc!" Wilhelmina's voice thundered from her office. The three assistants jumped, darting about in fear.

"C-c-coming, Willy!" Marc snatched up his inhaler and his notepad, turning to look viciously at Betty, "Speak of this to no one!"

~*~

"Don't dare mention it in front of Miranda," Emily warned, giving Andy the evil eye. Andrea Sachs nodded vehemently, although she still didn't understand what the fuss was about.

"I've got to go," Nigel glanced at his watch. "T-minus seven hours til the Gala. Tons to do."

He quickly disappeared. Emily tapped away at her keyboard, "Now, Andrea, don't forget to pick up Miranda's gown from Wardrobe. She's wearing Chanel tonight."

"Nice," Andrea said appreciatively.

"It's Miranda," Emily said icily. "She's always nicely dressed."

~*~

"Wot does that old cow wohn' me to do?" Christina looked heavenward. "Imma seamstress, noh' a miracle werka!"

"Keep your voice down, you old drunk!" Marc warned, looking around furtively. Willie had been on pins and needles all day—he would not allow this stupid Scotswoman to make things worse.

"Look, she chose tha gown months ago," Christina tried to explain in a patient tone. "She can't just decide tha night of tha par-tay to wear somethin' else."

"She's Wilhelmina Slater; she can do what she wants," Marc snapped. Christina gave a slight shrug of agreement—he had a point.

~*~

The hours seemed to crawl—the offices of Mode and Runway were at a virtual standstill as both sets of staff prayed that the two glamazons would not meet during the gala.

"Emily," Miranda's voice called softly from her office. It held a certain hint of impending doom.

Emily jumped to her feet and scurried into the room, "Yes, Miranda?"

"Call the car around. I'm going home."

Emily gave a curt nod and hurried back to her desk, dialing up the driver and relaying Miranda's instructions.

Wordlessly, Miranda marched through the outer office, taking her bag and coat from Andy's hand without so much as a backward glance.

Emily gave a deep sigh. Andrea turned to her coworker expectantly, "Now what?"

"Now we go home," Emily replied, gathering her things and glancing carelessly down at her blackberry. "We go home and prepare for battle."


	2. The Field of War

**The Field of War**

"What a lovely evening," Wilhelmina looked around, flashing her brilliant smile at a couple across the room, who raised their glasses to her in response.

Marc nodded in agreement, his eyes darting around furtively as he searched for any sign of Miranda Priestly. Amanda lurked behind him. She, too, wore a worried expression—she had gone through several plates of appetizers to calm her nerves, but nothing could assuage the fear building inside of her.

Betty was still blithely unaware of the gravity of the situation; she chattered away happily with guests, flashing her braces and absentmindedly pushing up her glasses from time to time.

~*~

"Let's get this over with," Miranda muttered under her breath to Nigel, who gave a curt nod of agreement. In all honestly, Nigel loved the Annual Fashion Institute Gala, but Miranda refused to stay more than a few minutes.

Emily gave Andy a critical once-over. She leaned forward, whispering so that Miranda couldn't hear, "Now, remember what you do if you spot her?"

Andy nodded, "I tell you, so that you and Nigel can guide Miranda away from her."

"Correct," Emily turned to hurry after Miranda, whose dusky purple gown was flowing down the carpet like a war banner, rallying the Runway staff to Miranda's side.

~*~

Amanda began to choke on an olive. Marc turned to give her a swift whack on the back—then he saw it.

Miranda Priestly had entered the building.

Amanda continued to motion frantically in Miranda's direction. She finally stopped choking; she clutched Marc's elbow with a sudden sense of ferocity, "She's here."

"Don't let Willie see her," Marc whispered, quickly grabbing a champagne glass to divert Wilhelmina's attention.

~*~

Andrea smiled as she noticed the rose petals falling from the ceiling.

"Nice touch," she whispered to herself.

"Andrea, what are you babbling about?" Emily shot her a dark look. Just then, Nigel fell back into step with the two assistants.

"Look who's here," he whispered, motioning across the room. Emily spotted the Mode staff; her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Marc and Amanda glared across the room at them; Nigel and Emily returned the dark looks.

"Game time, ladies," Nigel quickly moved back to Miranda. This time, he stood on her left side, attempting to shield her view. But fate, it seems, wasn't that kind.

Miranda turned to offer her wrap to the attendant, just as Wilhelmina turned to face some well-wishers.

Suddenly, the glamazons locked gazes from across the room. Miranda shed her wrap wordlessly, allowing the attendant to take it to coat check. Wilhelmina handed her champagne glass back to Marc, moving stealthily towards her target.

The two women advanced, both moving intently towards their sworn enemy, never taking their eyes off each other—the way two panthers stare before engaging in battle. They met in the center of the ball room, surrounded by beautiful dresses and lightly falling rose petals.

It was like a moment from a classic mob movie—the part where the opposing groups come together in an abandoned warehouse and shoot it out to the bloody death. The Runway Posse advanced, Miranda at point, her icy gaze piercing the oncoming Mode people with their intensity.

Wilhelmina led the Mode Squad, her chin jutted forward defiantly. The two groups seemed to approach in slow motion, the women's trains trailing behind them like ominous thunderheads.

Marc and Nigel practically threw caustic glances at one other, as Amanda and Emily mentally sized each other up. Betty and Andy, naively unaware of the impending doom, smiled warmly at each other. There was a terse moment before either fashionista spoke.

"Miranda," Wilhelmina feigned surprise.

"Wilhelmina," Miranda forced a gracious smile as they air kissed each other's cheeks.

"So nice to see you again," Wilhelmina's voice held a false sense of warmth_. Dammit, she wasn't supposed to be here yet!_

"Like wise," Miranda returned coolly. _Oh, someone's head will roll for this_.

"So, I see you went with Chanel this year. Very classic," Willie's eyes widened. _Classic. As in ancient. Like you._

"And look at you. Ford?" Miranda motioned to the dress. "It's very fitting."

In other words, _I'm surprised you fit that ass in that dress, cow_.

"Thank you," Wilhelmina smiled. _Bitch_.

"It's so…refreshing to see someone your age taking such a risk," Miranda lightly motioned to the dress. Wilhelmina bristled and opened her mouth to reply, but she was interrupted.

"Miss Slater," a handsome young man approached, champagne in hand. "I noticed you were without some refreshment."

"Thank you, darling," Willy flashed a brilliant smile at him. Suddenly, she had an ace. She turned back to Miranda with a smile, "This is Paulo—"

"Guidicelli from Patrice's agency," Miranda finished, extending her hand graciously. "Bonjourno, Paulo. I've heard a lot about you."

"Really?" Paulo's eyes lit up with childish excitement. "I cannot believe this—I mean, I didn't expect you to remember me. Miranda Priestly, the biggest name is fashion—"

"And don't you forget it," Miranda smiled smugly. Paulo excused himself with another dashing smile and Miranda returned her gaze to Wilhelmina. A Mona Lisa smile played upon Miranda's flawless face.

"How do you know Paulo?" Wilhelmina locked eyes with the Editor-in-Chief of Runway. _Did you sleep with him?_

"I know everyone, dearie," Miranda gave another elusive smile. _Wouldn't you like to know._

"So I see," Wilhelmina admitted. _Whore_.

"I see the young Mr. Meade has bumped up circulation for that magazine of yours," Miranda commented dryly. She looked over her shoulder at Nigel, "What's the name again?"

"Mode," Nigel practically spat the name. Miranda smiled graciously again.

"Ah, yes. Mr. Meade seems to be quite the wonder-kid," she looked at Wilhelmina. _Unlike you, you talentless fop._

"Much like Jacqueline Follet is for Runway," Wilhelmina couldn't resist the barb. _Two can play that game._

The two stopped their conversation to lean forward, flashing smiles for the photographers who called to them. In that moment, with arms circled around each other and warm smiles on their flawless faces, they seemed like the best of friends. As soon as the cameras left, they parted like the Red Sea.

"Well, I must be going," Miranda gave another charmed smile. _I would rather gouge my eyes out than spend another minute conversing with you._

"Likewise," Wilhelmina returned the false smile. _Thank God_. _I was seven seconds away from slitting my wrist with that awful brooch of yours._

The two women turned and walked away, both inwardly fuming at the meeting.

~*~

"Marc," Wilhelmina didn't bother to look at him. "You know those five other curly haired assistants I have on speed dial?"

"Y-y-yes," Marc gulped, fidgeting nervously with his bow tie.

"Call them first thing in the morning."

~*~

"Ahn-dray-ah?" Miranda turned her head ever-so-slightly, waiting for her assistant's reply.

"Yes, Miranda?" Andy asked, still oblivious to the situation.

"Is your passport up-to-date?" This was obviously another barb about Paris, aimed at Emily, who seemed to tear up on the spot.

~*~

In another Matrix-like moment, the two women slowly turned to glance at each other over their shoulders as they continued to walk away. Wilhelmina arched her eyebrow in a silent challenge; Miranda merely gave her usual smirk.

Then they both turned to flash angry looks at their respective entourages.

"This had better not happen again," both women said in unison.

~*~

As the Mode Posse disappeared across the ballroom, Betty Suarez couldn't help but smile hopefully at Marc and Amanda, "They seemed nice, didn't they?"

The dynamic duo shot each other incredulous glances, but didn't respond. This girl was so beyond help.

~*~

Andrea took a small sip of champagne, "That went well."

Emily looked at her in disbelief. Already the red-headed assistant was fidgeting with her dress and following Miranda's every move as if her life depended on it.

"I mean, for Miranda and Wilhelmina to be such enemies, they seemed to get along quite nicely," Andrea continued.

"Oh, shut up," Emily growled, looking up to make sure that Miranda hadn't heard Andy's heinous comment.

Miranda hadn't, but Nigel had. He turned to look at Andrea critically, "Tell me, Sachs, how is it that you are still considered female if you can't even pick up on the basic undertones of conversation? We just survived a war, kid."

Emily took a long draught of her champagne, "Which means we'll die tomorrow."

"Most definitely," Nigel agreed, raising his glass. After toasting to their health, the two hurried to catch up with Miranda Priestly, who wore a charming smile as she made her way to the car.

Andrea Sachs looked heavenward, her brown eyes filled with confusion. "I'll never understand these people, as long as I live."

_~Le Fin_


End file.
